


Trials

by bandwhore



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Frerard, M/M, Music, Peterick, sort of, trial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:50:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandwhore/pseuds/bandwhore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People tended not to like Pete. He wasn't really sociable, or as posh as all the other preppy fuckers in this stupid school, so he kept to himself and the other students, in order, kept to themselves too. Well, mostly. Obviously there were a few bastards who kept saying shit about Pete, but it didn't matter too much. Then the Trials started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Choosing (Or, in Which Pete's Problem is Established and so is The Plot)

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt. Probably going to be a little bit useless but whatever. Unbeta-d, so if you could tell me about any mistakes that'd be awesome c:

“Fuck, my head. The dean is going to fucking slaughter me.” Pete shouldn’t have been out drinking the night before such an important day, the dean was literally going to murder him. Even after twenty one years of being alive, Pete Wentz still couldn’t wake up on time but it didn’t matter much anyway, except for if the day was as important as today.

Pete stumbled out of his bed and dragged his regulation school slacks and shirt as he slipped out of the door from his tiny bedroom and into the loud common room. As usual, no one noticed as the dark haired young man weaved through the crowd and sat in the corner of the room, most probably to brood. He broods an abnormal amount for a twenty one year old, but how else is he supposed to write his lyrics?

People tended not to like Pete. He had copious amounts of eyeliner on and his jet black hair scraped forwards so it flopped over his eye, his regulation uniform slacks ripped at the knees, and his shirt and tie covered in ink splatters and paint marks. Pete wasn’t really sociable, or as posh as all the other preppy fuckers in this stupid school, so he kept to himself and the other students, in order, kept to themselves too. Well, mostly. Obviously there were a few bastards who kept saying shit about Pete, but it didn’t matter too much.

Usually.

The common room was a relic. It was once a grand room, as regal as the offices in the main building, but the amount of students that had passed through had ruined the aesthetic. There was probably a colour scheme, a theme to the room before, but now the furniture was mismatched, plastic chairs and cheap wooden shelves collapsing, milk crates fashioned into footrests. It wasn’t what it used to be, by a long shot, but it felt a lot more like home this way. As the pack of students in Pete’s common room milled around, shouted to each other and laughed happily, Pete sank further into the corner and let his mind spill out onto the page of his tattered note pad. Lyrics poured out onto the paper and his pen scrawled noisily against the once blank canvas. Words danced around on the lines and flowed easily into melodies, just as easily as they seeped out onto the page in the first place.

Pete’s note pad was stuffed full of songs, sheets of paper with lyrics quickly penned on at three am falling out of the pages. It never left his possession; it was his only companion, the only one to know his fears, the single thing to ground him when the world felt too much for him. Pete was alone, but when he had his notes, he wasn’t lonely.

The fog of Pete’s hangover, which was settling very nicely until now, was quickly dispersed when the shrill ring of the bell sounded throughout the whole campus and every single student stilled. A stereotypical three note noise chorused out over the tinny loudspeaker, and a crackling, southern lady’s voice chimed out soon after.  
“Attention, all students. The naming ceremony for this year’s Trial will be happening momentarily. If all of you could make your way to the outdoor stand, why that’d be great.” The loudspeaker cut off with a crackly screech which made Pete’s head thump even harder.

#####

A plethora of lines coated the stained black tarmac of the courtyard. Pete slinked into the back of his line about five minutes late, because who knew tequila and vodka shots off men in much less clothing than is properly decent could make you so sick? Pete didn’t, that’s for sure.

“Welcome, everybody, if y’all could just stand in the line for your house, that’d be great. Youngest on the left, and the oldest on the right, now shh, everyone, we need to make a start, okay?” a white set of teeth flashed through her stained red lips. Ms Rummer wasn’t one to argue with. She looked all harmless, with her bleached white hair and girly dresses, but underneath the cowboy hat and boots she had more than enough venom to kill half of the student body. She was the actual stereotype of the deep south – stupid, prejudice, and a supporter of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

“Now, guys, as you all know, the start of the year means it’s time for the Trials! Six lucky students from this school will be selected to partake in one challenging task in order to prove their courage and bravery. Death may come your way, but the honour you’ll receive if you complete the challenge vastly outweighs the chance of your untimely demise. Now, if you may, it’s time to choose the participants.” Another glimpse of white crushed between blood red was shot towards her menacing looking assistant, and six slightly crumpled pieces of paper were pulled out of a vast metal container.

Pete’s steady breaths started faltering. Everyone knew this was rigged, the contestants were chosen. And well, Pete was told by someone who was told by someone, who was told by someone that the professors had chosen Pete as one of the contestants. Pete was going to die. If the trial didn’t kill him, then the fucking alcohol he’d consumed would.

“And the first contestant is…” Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum, Pete’s heart smashed against his ribs, the nervous butterflies in his stomach ripping his insides into shreds. “Patrick Stump, make your way up here please, Patrick!” The whole crowed shifted and rippled, a tremendous amount of sighs of relief and shaky breaths were let out simultaneously and a small gingery-blonde kid from one of the middle years came out and shuffled to the stage. “Well, you gonna introduce yourself to everyone?” Rummer prompted.  
“Uh, I’m Patrick, I’m sixteen and I’m sorta a lot nervous” An anxious giggle escaped the kid’s lips as he finished, and he was quickly ushered off the stage by one of the assistants.

“The second contestant is…” That kid looked quite good, Pete thought as he took a swig out of the bottle of rum he’d managed to smuggle into the lines. But Pete was still quite a bit hammered, so he’d have to wait until he sobered up to make sure.  
“Pete Wentz! Come up to the stage sweetie, introduce yourself just like Patrick just did.” Patrick had a nice laugh. And his face was pretty damn good when he smiled. Pete was halfway through drinking when he realised everyone had turned towards him, then his brain finally caught up with his ears and he realised that his name had been called.  
“Well. Fuck.” He sighed as he walked towards the stage, and the microphone which was placed right centre front of the crowd. He placed his feet either side of the mic and said “I’m Pete Wentz,” He lifted his bottle to his lips and downed the remainder of the vessel. “And I’m way too drunk for this shit.” The bottle smashed to the floor, glass shattering everywhere as black shrouded Pete’s vision, and he collapsed unconscious onto the stage.


	2. The Meeting (Or, in Which Pete Talks to Patrick and Alcohol is Confiscated)

People were spinning. Wait, no, that’s just Pete’s head, the people are fine. Something hard was digging into his hip, but he was way too fucked to even think about moving at the moment. Pete groped around on the floor, desperately searching for the bottle of vodka he was sure he’d left just next to him and oh, he was laying on someone’s lap. And he may or may not have touched up their foot. It might have been someone’s crotch, actually, they feel sort of similar.

“You uh, you wanna stop putting your hand all over my junk?” It was the cute guy. How old was he? Sixteen? That’s a little too young, even for Pete.  
“Have you seen my bottle of vodka? I lost it somewhere… dude, what is this thing sticking into my hip can you get it out please, that’d be great.” Pete’s hair flipped every time he spoke, the air from his exhale catching the wispy black bangs covering his face. He meant to say please, but he was hungover and his head was pretty comfortable and he was about to fall asleep, so manners weren’t really at the forefront of his mind.

The room was dark. All the furniture was rich mahogany and deep golds, large bookshelves lined the walls, hundreds of volumes falling out of the shelves, stacked any which way making the room seem a lot more closed and intimate. Small trinkets sat atop every surface and a large globe sat in the corner of the room. Three dark wood sofas with pale silver swirls on a gold fabric sat around a glass coffee table in the centre of the room. Four guys sat on the sofas. One had long curly hair and was strumming on a guitar; the second was nearly bald and had tattoos covering his arms. The last two were sat together on the smallest sofa, one with shocking red hair and skin as pale as a vampire, and the smaller and younger with tan skin and shoulder length jet black hair.

“Well, firstly, you can’t have any more alcohol because I think your liver is about to die, and the thing in your hip is your phone and you have” Cute guy pushed his hand into Pete’s front pocked. Pete giggled. It was the alcohol, honestly. “a new text and a couple missed calls. Well done.”  
“Oooh a message gimme” Pete made grabby hands towards cute guy, maybe it was another cute guy who had texted him. Maybe they had alcohol. Pete was totally pumped.

It was his mum.

Pete’s mother had texted him and rang him six times whilst he was out, all just to say that when he got back he was getting in trouble for stealing tequila from the alcohol cabinet at home. He did it all the time and he never got caught before, someone must have told her. Cute guy would know, he seems to know a lot right now.

“Hey, cute guy” He punched the guy’s knee, wanting to get his attention. “Did you ring my mum and tell her I stole tequila from the cabinet, because if you did I can’t call you cute guy anymore okay and that’s gonna be a travesty in its self.”  
“My name is Patrick, not cute guy, and no. I didn’t but Ms Rummer did. After you collapsed on the stage, she got pretty pissed, and long story short you will never have any alcohol as long as you are on the premises.”

Oh. Pete smashed a bottle and went out cold on the stage. That’s pretty impressive. “Thanks Patty cakes, you’re a true friend. Now help me sit up or I’ll die in a hole or something.”  
#####

A mess of scarlet red, brilliant white and orange fake tan waltzed into the room and made her presence known.  
“Attention, everyone. Well, the trials have been decided, and they are to do with water, so make sure you have your scuba gear with you!” A high pitched laugh tore it’s way through Pete’s eardrums, making him wince. “I am of course, joking, you can’t have any equipment for the trial. Anyway, after Mr Wentz’s… performance, the other four contestants were announced. I want you all to make friends, now, as you’ll be spending the next week together in this very dorm! Now, it’ll be two to a room so you can all make at least one new friend here. Joe, you are with Andy in the first room, Frank you are with Patrick in the second room, and Gerard, I’m sorry to say that you’ve got your work cut out, you are with Pete in the last room. Now if you could all get settled in and talk for a while in your rooms, well that’d be great.” She forced a smile to the participants, and then made her way to shove everyone into their correct rooms.


	3. The Rooms (Or, in Which Pete is a Bitch so he Gets Punched)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short chapter, wanted to get into writing again and didn't want to push myself! Uploads will be more frequent, sorry about that.

Gerard was being bitchy and unreasonable. Just because Pete found his alcohol stash in his suitcase and drank all of it whilst Gerard was in the shower doesn’t mean that Gerard had the right to claim the bottom bunk.

“Fuck you, you weren’t even allowed any fucking alcohol anymore! I’m choosing the bottom bunk so you can shut up, fucker.”  
“Actually, I don’t care anymore, I’d probably be scared to sleep on the bottom when your fat arse could make the bunk collapse at any time.”  
“Oh fuck you!” Gerard swung a fist at Pete’s face, and because Pete was freshly smashed out of his face, the fist cracked his nose.  
“You bitch! You fucking busted my nose!” Blood slid down his face and dripped onto his favourite Pink Floyd shirt which prompted Pete to launch himself at Gerard.

The two boys fell to the floor, Gerard screaming and Pete swearing all the way, and wrestled each other. Gerard laid into Pete’s ribs, Pete into Gerard’s gut, all while Pete’s blood gushed from his nose. Gerard pulled Pete up and smashed him into the door frame, which was surprisingly easy because even though Gerard was not strong, Pete was pissed out of his head and really quite skinny.  
“HELP. FUCKING HELP ME! THIS KID IS TRYING TO MURDER ME.”  
“No I’m not, just trying to seriously maim you because you STOLE MY FUCKING BOOZE”  
“Fucking fuck this shit you man-whore.” Pete lifted his knee in a sharp movement and slammed his assailant right in the balls, just as Frank and Patrick ran to the door.

“Uh. Pete, I thought you said he was trying to kill you?”  
“Why the fuck is he on the floor, asshole?”  
Pete stumbled and smacked into the wall as he tried to explain. “Well, as Patty-Pat asked first, he was trying to kill me, but I had to protect myself, right, so I kicked him in the balls. And you, little shit, you can fuck off.”  
“Jesus Pete, lay off Frank, you did just beat up his boyfriend.”  
“What’s he gonna do, bite my kneecaps off?” A hiccup tumbled from Pete’s chest right in the same moment as Frank cracked his head on the door frame.


	4. The Argument (Or, in Which Pete Finally Sobers up and Patrick Hurts Pete's Head)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER, WOO! I promise that this fic has not been abandoned, I got busy with school and I started like, three other fics, oops. But here is the next part, and hopefully the wait will be a lot shorter for the next.

“What a day this has been…” Pete stirred to consciousness at the sound of someone singing. It was a wonderful voice. Smooth and soulful in all the right places, and rough and textured in the others. Every note which slipped from the lips of the singer was perfect, it was almost enough to make Pete slide back into the unholy depths of an alcohol fuelled black out. The headache stopped that, though.

“What a rare mood I’m in…” He let the voice smother him, wash over him in a cool, relaxing wave. This voice would sound wonderful singing some of his songs, he thought. Just a little more training to make sure that the singer could hit all the high notes, and it would be perfect. Pete rolled his head and figured out that he was resting his poor, inured skull in the lap of the singer.

“Why it’s almost like being in love.” His eyes fell open, and when he was finally able to focus on something he saw that the cute guy was the singer.  
“Well Patty, someone certainly can sing, can’t they?” Pete smirked.  
“What? Pete oh my god I didn’t know you were awake…” A deep blush sunk itself into Patrick’s cheeks “I wouldn’t have been singing if I knew you could hear.”  
“Aw man, why not Trick?”  
“I don’t like singing in front of people, stage fright and all that.” Only mumbles were coming out of Patrick’s mouth now, the voice that Pete loved had stopped.  
“Well hey, after you explain why you have willingly let a twenty one year old drunk put his head near your junk you can sing for me again, okay? Quietly though, this headache is pounding.”  
“Well, after your fight with Gerard you were taken out of his room, so now you’re with me and Frank is with Gerard.”  
Pete thought about his next question, and asked it with less caution than he probably should have. “How old are you anyways?”  
Patrick looked away from Pete and mumbled something.  
“You wanna share with the class or what?” Joked a slightly confused Pete.

Patrick stood up, which made Pete’s head drop to the floor , and stormed out of the room whilst shouting “For fuck’s sake, all it ever is is how fucking old are you!” Pete was stunned.

And his head hurt.

He now took the opportunity to look around one of the bedrooms for the first time since he had arrived. Much like the main room they were in before it was furnished with deep mahogany everything. In this room there wasn’t a rickety bunk bed, instead there were two single beds, each with dark red bedding on them. Patrick’s stuff was on the left bed, so Pete dragged himself up, stumbled toward his bag and hauled it to his bed.

Pete had very few items in his possession, he hadn’t really received much at home, as he was the ‘mistake’. His parents never let him forget that he wasn’t really supposed to be there, that his brothers were better than him. They didn’t write stupid songs, they went out and played football. They didn’t get smashed out of their minds and tell everyone that they’re gay, they get smashed out of their minds and tell everyone about this girl’s tits that they saw. Pete was always taught that he was right at the bottom of the hierarchy, so that’s where he stayed.

He tipped out his jeans and band tees, and shoved them mercilessly into a drawer. His notepad was torn out of his jacket pocket and thrown onto the desk as Pete slumped down on the chair and began to write.

#####

After an unknown amount of time, it could be ten minutes, it could be two hours, Pete lost track of himself really, the door to the room creaked open and a small, ginger-blonde head peeped around it.  
“Hey, Pete? Are you angry with me?” He sounded sad, miserable even. Pete’s heart fluttered and immediately started shouting ‘hug him, hug him, hug him’ but his brain was saying ‘Don’t give in, be strong, argue, Pete!’  
Pete sighed and looked up from his notepad “I’m not angry. Very confused and slightly peeved, yes, but not annoyed.”  
Patrick gingerly stepped into the room and sat on his bed, next to the desk. He looked very scared, like a small kitten, ready to run even at the slightest provocation. “I’m sorry I stormed out. It’s just,” he took a deep breath, then continued, “my whole life I’ve been stopped doing things I want because of my age, and I really don’t want to be stopped again. When - when I was younger, my family had financial problems, we couldn’t always afford food or the bills, and I was never old enough to help out or get a job and it got to me, it fucking got to me and-“ Patrick’s speech full of tears was cut off by a surprise hug from Pete.  
“Hey, c’mon Trick, it’s cool, I get it.” Patrick let out a huff of air against Pete’s neck and snuggled his head deeper into the gap between Pete’s head and shoulder.  
“I’m sorry, Pete”  
“Nah, it’s cool Patty cakes. Now, we better stop this hugging thing before my dick gets too involved, if you catch my drift” Pete winked, and Patrick immediately sprung away from him with an embarrassed giggle and a blush spreading all over his cheeks. Even sobriety couldn’t stop Pete Wentz being a little bitch.


	5. The Nightmare (Or, in Which Pete is a Not Bitch but he Gets Punched Anyway)

There’s blood. It’s everywhere, a scarlet sheet over everything in the alley. His face gets smashed into the floor, where the biggest pool of the crimson liquid is, and it goes up his nose and leaves a sharp metallic taste as he chokes. He can’t see, one eye is swollen and the other is clamped shut, as unwilling to move as an anchor.  
“I bet you fucking like this, you dirty little slut.” His ears are ringing. People are shouting at him, no, these are not people, these are abominations of the animal kingdom who have found out how to abuse their power at the top of the food chain.

He can’t breathe, something is clamped around his neck. Hands, maybe. Could be rope. The ringing in his ears is overwhelming, like he’s being forced to listen to radio static on full volume. His vision is going, black spots popping up every time he even dares to open his eyes to see his assailants. He can hear only snippets of what they are saying, words like ‘faggot’ and ‘emo’ being thrown around constantly.

Someone grabs his leg, one hand by the ankle and one hand by the knee. They laugh manically before stamping right in the middle of Pete’s shin, shattering the bone. Pete screams. His whole leg is on fire, his whole body is battered and worn out but the excruciating pain that is currently radiating out from his right leg is filling his body with adrenaline. He can make noise again, he can try and struggle again, the black spots are gone from his vision. He can see two of his attackers and he can feel the third restraining him from behind. 

“Finally decided to join us then, faggot? We’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes for us.” Pete is grabbed by the jaw and his mouth is wrenched open, dislocating it in the process. Someone spits in his face before the gun is rammed into his mouth, pointing towards his brain stem and certain death. Everything stops. Pete can’t die here, not like this. He refuses to become a fucking statistic on the six o’clock news. He stops moving, he stops breathing. He closes his eyes again, hoping that they’ll act like a shutter and he can remove himself from here. 

The gun is removed from his mouth and he breathes again, and he sees the quick flash of silver that could only be one thing, but he still doesn’t have enough time before the knife is impaled right into his side. He can’t even scream, all his energy is flowing out of the wound, along with his blood, even more blood, does he have any left? The knife is dragged down, slicing more flesh. The wound isn’t too deep, but it feels as though someone has sliced him in two with a chainsaw, the pain is almost enough to make him pass out, only adrenaline is keeping him conscious now.

The three guys run away, still shouting at him as they leave. Pete knows his only chance is to crawl out of the alleyway, but as soon as he tries to move the searing pain from his leg and the gaping slice in his side tear screams out from his bruised chest. The last of the attackers turns around, walks back toward Pete and laughs “One less dirty piece of scum on this Earth now” before he shoots Pete straight between his eyes, an instant kill.

“PETE. FUCKING HELL, PETE YOU WAKE THE FUCK UP THIS SECOND OR I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE BALLS, AND BELIEVE ME EVERYONE HERE WANTS TO SEE THAT.” Pete lurched awake, smashing his head on the bottom of the shelf which has been annoyingly placed right above the bed, who even does that, in the process. “Oh thank fucking fuck, you were screaming as though you were being murdered,” Pete choked as Patrick said this, but Patrick only gave him a strange look before continuing “So everyone ran in here and yeah, that’s where we are now.”

Pete glanced behind Patrick and saw that Patrick was, as ever, completely correct. Andy and Joe were stood just behind Patrick, and even Frank and Gerard had looks of slight concern and worry on their faces. “Huh, I guess you’re right Pat Pat.” Pete sighed and threw himself back down onto his lumpy mattress. How did he even manage to fall asleep on this in the first place? It was horrible; it had springs poking about everywhere and a stain on it that looked all too suspicious. “Well guys, thanks for coming but I’m afraid the show is over. This is what happens when you take all the booze out of the Wentz so there you go.” Pete groaned and rolled over in his bed.

He could hear Patrick ushering everyone out of the room quietly, then out of the blue he yelled “No Frank, leave it.” in the sternest and commanding voice Pete had ever heard come out of the guy and oh hello, now his dick wanted in on some of the action. Pete rolled onto his stomach when Patrick strolled over to the bed to save the little guy some embarrassment. Pete’s nice like that.

“Pete, you wanna talk about that or?...” Patrick sounded genuinely concerned and wow, that was new.  
“What was Frank taking?” He really did not want yet another person giving him more sympathy and pathetic looks of pity when they think that he couldn’t see.  
“He tried to take your notebook, but I stopped him. Now, the dream?” Patrick had his goal and by god was he determined to get there. Pete liked dominant men.  
“Tricky, seriously, it was nothing, don’t you worry your cute little booty about it.” Patrick blushed again and yeah, that won’t ever get old, Pete thought.  
“Pete, I told you about my secret so you can tell me about your dream. Sound like a fair deal?” And oh god, Patrick was pulling those cute eyes that Pete would probably never be able to say no to.  
“Fine, sit down or something, I’ll save you the details but it will still be pretty impressive.” Pete turned over to sit up with his back against the wall, and Patrick sat and rested his hand on Pete’s thigh. He was getting brave. “Well, when I was like, a little younger than you I figured out that I liked guys, right?” Patrick nodded. “So you know, I figured out what was what and who was safe to tell and who wasn’t, blah blah blah, and it went okay for a while. Then when I was eighteen this dude started talking to me, and he was really sweet and we talked all the time. He was one of the guys in my grade who was on the football team, which really should have set off alarm bells but I was fucking blinded by what he was saying. Anyways, fast forward a couple of weeks and he’s meeting me by this bar, and we walk down this alley way and he just, turns on me. 

“Got two of his friends to come help, they beat me up pretty badly, shattered my left shin, broke a few ribs and I was in bad shape but I could have managed, you know?” Pete had slowly curled in on himself as he was talking, and Patrick moved to pull his arms down and hold one of Pete’s hands between his own. Pete gulped, and then continued. “Then one of them dislocated my jaw and put a gun in my mouth, and another stabbed me in the side.” His hand went reflexively to his right side. Patrick had gone pale, so very pale, and he looked angry. “I can’t even remember how I got out, but I woke up in a hospital and there my parents told me that I was transferring here until I solved my ‘problem’. The guys never got caught, you know. All because I’m gay.”

He laughed self-depreciatingly at the end of his speech and wiped away a few errant tears that had made their way down his face. Patrick’s face kept flitting between a soft expression and a hard, steely look of anger. In the end he compromised with flinging himself at Pete for a tear filled, hard hug and telling Pete over and over again that he’s okay now, and that they’ll find the bastards who did this. Pete and Patrick were both crying, Pete sobbing just like he did when he was alone and he thought about it, but this time he was with Patrick. This time someone could make him feel better.

#####

After they had cried and hugged a lot, Patrick had got up, turned the light off and said goodnight to Pete before he got into his bed. It was an hour later and Pete was still awake, he just couldn't get himself to fall asleep, for very good reasons. He knew that Patrick wasn't awake and that he’d probably be stupidly angry when he woke up in the morning, but Pete still couldn't stop himself from creeping out of is bed and whispering “Hey, Patty” whilst gently shaking his companion until he woke up.

Patrick looked blearily at him and mumbled “What, Pete? I'm trying to sleep here.”  
“I know you are, Trick, but can I please just sleep next to you? I can’t sleep and you make everything better” Pete was pleading, and even a sort-of-awake Patrick could tell he was desperate, so Patrick mumbled some vaguely affirmative noise before shuffling over the bed and letting Pete in. Pete slipped under the quilt and said a quick thank you to Patrick before the comforting heat of another person in his space pulled him into a, thankfully calm, slumber.


End file.
